


Whatever It Takes

by Talithax



Series: Voller Kreis [2]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Series, post - verbrechen strafe, relationship break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic 2 in the Voller Kreis series.  Follows on from Forever Pure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> Narrated by Aya.

====================  
~ Whatever It Takes ~  
====================

 

// Get some lovin’ you want some get some. Get some lovin’ you need some get some. //

The irony of the inane lyrics being repeated ad nauseam over the pulsating dance music is, I’m quietly confident, lost on the majority of Illusion’s drug fucked, vacantly happy patrons.

Love?

In a culture that exists solely for the futile pursuit of hedonistic pleasure and casual, emotionless sex?

I don’t think so.

Slurring declarations of love in the ear of someone who’s essentially a stranger, little more than an object to be fucked and discarded, whilst simultaneously ripping open a condom packet and scrabbling around for the lube doesn’t, contrary to the belief of many, count.

Love you… You’re so fucking hot… Oh, baby, you’re so tight, so fucking good… Love you, love you, love you…

… Uh. What’s your name again?

It’s like you check both your heart and your soul in with your coat when you enter a place like this. The half-comatose, seen-it-all-before-and-then-some doorman stamps your hand and, just like that, you’re immediately reduced to being little more than a body, again, an object who has one and one only purpose in life. Names and the world outside the club’s four walls become meaningless, a figment of some mundane individual’s drab and dreary imagination. Reality, in general, ceases to exist. War, love, famine, hate, friendship, death, faith, pain, debt - anything of any meaning is rendered instantly meaningless.

As club names go, Illusion is one of the more apt. Better than Bliss at any rate. Even the club names mean nothing though. They’re all the same. Same music, same buff, half-naked bodies, same predatory glint in everyone’s eyes, same heavy scent of Amyl, sex, and sweat hanging in the air. Same darkened back room that the voyeuristic and exhibitionistic alike gravitate to in order to get their cheap, numbing, thrills from.

Same neatly divided cliques and stereotypes. The users and the pushers. The fashion victims in their carefully chosen outfits that they’ve spent the better part of the day parading in front of the mirror and perfecting. The jaded middle-aged couple standing by the bar and surveying the crowd in search of a third cock to put some spice back into their lackluster sex life. The tourists, in both the literal sense of the word and those who, finally having raised the courage to venture into a gay bar, stand alongside the dance floor with their eyes all but popping out of their head. The old pervert who nurses one drink all night and sits in the corner surreptitiously jerking off under the table.

Same goal driving everyone. Same end result.

The night before last I went to Pagan. If not for the door stamps -- a rose entwined pentagram for Pagan, Tinkerbell for Illusion -- being different I could easily think they were one and the same. Not that it matters in the slightest. For all I care I could be anywhere. Pagan. Crystal Palace. Illusion. Fantasia. Vixens…

… Pushed up against a wall with my trousers around my ankles while some faceless, nameless stranger fucks me.

It doesn’t matter.

In fact, nothing other than the fact that I’m here courtesy of my own free will matters a damn.

I’m here because I choose to be. End of story.

When he -- the stranger who views me as nothing more than a conquest, an accommodating body for him to have his way with -- crosses my path and gives me the come on, I follow him willingly. No questions asked. No names shared. We’ll share our bodies but not our lives, our secrets, our true identities.

We’re here for the same thing, after all. Nothing more and certainly nothing less.

No strings attached sex. Mindless and numbing sex. Sex devoid of so much as a hint of emotion. An orgasm that means nothing to no one and is forgotten about before you’ve even started pulling your clothes back on.

The names of the clubs change, but that’s all. Everything else is almost reassuring in its consistency. I’ve only been frequenting the places for a little less than three weeks and already I feel as though I could write the definite guide in relation to what to expect from them.

Music - sex. Drugs - sex. Alcohol - sex.

Sex - music. Sex - drugs. Sex - alcohol.

Simple.

Why pay for a whore when you can fuck yourself into oblivion for only the cost of a door fee? Cheap at half the price, really. And, should you wish to, you can even pour alcohol down your throat and dance. Bonus.

I despise it. All of it. From the stupid ultraviolet light shows and pulsating Western dance music to the over familiar hands that ghost over my body as though it’s their God given right to touch me. I hate it all. The smell, the noise, the debauched behavior of men who should really know better, the man I inevitably end up with, *everything*. Hardly surprisingly, I even hate myself.

Kimura was right in his estimate of me.

I *am* a whore, my meager talents on offer to anyone who wants them. I can kill or I can fuck. Put a katana in my hand or push me to my knees. Either or. I don’t care. Given that I enjoy neither activity it doesn’t matter what my opinions on the subject are. Regardless of what it does to me in the process, I’ll do whatever it takes to obtain the result *I* desire… The result *I’ve* decided *I* desire above all others. My choice. My ass. My mouth. My disintegrating heart.

My excuse for a life.

If the end result means prostituting myself to strangers to give credence to my decision then, well, so be it. If it has to be done then it has to be done. I may be a convincing liar but I can’t very well just lie to myself. If I’m wanting to give the impression of indulging in a spot of boredom induced fucking around then, there’s no help for it, this is where, night after night, I have to be. Besides, slinking in stinking of sex carries more weight than even the most carefully played out of lies. Actions speaking louder than words, he wouldn’t believe me otherwise.

And he has to.

He has to believe me.

Although it’s something I never want him finding out, I’m putting myself through this hell solely for Yohji’s greater good. Knowing me -- possibly, to his detriment, better than I know myself -- too well, he’d never take my blasé declarations at face value and it’s for him that I’m here forcing myself to gather proof. Wanting him to hate me, to realize that I’m nothing more than a weight around his neck, I’m also here to make it as easy as I possibly can for him.

Given everything he’s done for me, how it’s solely down to him that I’m even still here, it’s…

Well, it’s the very least I can do.

I may be an adept liar. I may even have perfected the art of being cold and calculating. I know in myself though that this is the only way. I can’t simply tell Yohji that I’m tired of his love and that I no longer love him because I know, no matter how much effort I put into it, I wouldn’t be able to sound convincing. Nor do I have it in me to successfully convey my reasons for wanting to push him away. Reaching the conclusion was hard enough in itself without actually having to give voice to it. There are times, even now that I’ve successfully turned myself in to little more than a common slut, that I still find myself wavering. I force myself to push ahead though. Again, I have to. My mind is made up. The further I’m capable of pushing him away the better.

While I never thought it was something I was capable of, I love Yohji with every battered and scarred emotion I have to offer. It’s not enough though. Nowhere near enough. He deserves more than I could ever give him. He mightn’t think it, but he does. I love him and I don’t want to be having to do this, but, really, I have no other option. For his own well being he needs to give up on me. The first bullet he took -- in my name -- on my behalf was bad enough. The second however was far too close a call. My memories consisting of a myriad horrific images to choose from, it’s the sight of Yohji crumbling to the ground, blood pouring out of his side, that currently holds the number one spot in my nightmares. He could have died. His love for me being so -- foolish -- great, he put my life before his and took the bullet that had my name on it.

Even as he lay bleeding in my arms I knew that he’d -- *we’d* -- made a mistake. Love makes a person do irrational, dangerous things that anyone in their sane mind wouldn’t even contemplate. For me, a deadly fuck-up with questionable morals who he just happens to misguidedly love, he would have willingly sacrificed his life.

Idiot.

He’d do it again too. I know it.

And it just isn’t something I can allow.

My hands are stained with enough blood, both innocent and deserving, without Yohji’s adding to it. I didn’t really care for Botan in the slightest yet to this day I carry his death with me. If Yohji was to choose my life over his he’d be as good as hammering the final nail in my coffin anyway as I simply wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I just wouldn’t. My life is no more important than his and it’s seriously flawed of him to think otherwise. I can live with the constant threat that hangs over all of our heads and I can deal with knowing that on any given mission -- any one of us -- Yohji may not make it back. They’re just facts of life that are essentially out of my control. I can fight and I can do everything in my power to protect those who need protecting, but that’s all. I can’t cheat death and I sure as hell can’t stop it. As clinical and unfeeling as it is, we all need to look out for ourselves first and foremost before we can even contemplate the fate of others.

It’s just how it is.

Yohji watching my back over his is an accident waiting to happen. He’s good, but I know that I’m better. Again, it’s just how it is. I’m a survivor; someone who can look after himself whatever the situation. I’m also more -- detached -- self-absorbed. I do what I have to do because there’s no other way. I hunt those that the law turns a blind eye to and I force myself to make choices that, deep down, I don’t really want to have to make. After all, someone has to.

In an ideal world I wouldn’t be standing here waiting for a stranger to decide that I’m his best bet for the night. No. I’d be at home, lying in the arms of -- my savior -- the only man I know I’ll ever truly love.

Unfortunately, however, there’s no such thing as an ideal world.

Truth be told I don’t even have it in me to successfully imagine what one would possibly be like. I’m here because I want my lover to hate me. Simple, really. My own feelings don’t… *can’t*… enter into it. I know I’ll love him to my dying days but that’s my cross to bear and mine alone. Denied love is preferable to mourning yet another pointless death. For his own good Yohji has to wake up to the fact that he’s better off not loving me, that I’m just not worth all the care and attention he lavishes on me. Once he’s free I’m sure he’ll even realize this for himself.

It hurts, but I can do it.

Having done it before, I *know* I can. Despite it having been my only reason for living for so long, I was able to let Aya-chan go without even allowing myself the closure of seeing her -- *alive* again -- laughing and smiling with my own eyes. What’s more, I haven’t regretted my decision for a second. Learning the sordid fate of her big brother wouldn’t have helped her healing process in the slightest. Nor would have seeing for herself what he’d become. Her life, and this is something I’ve never once doubted, is better for my not being in it.

Yohji may never forget me but so long as he ends up believing that I no longer love him and that he’s better off away from me, it will all be worth it.

It will be. I’ve made my mind up.

A lingering presence at my back making me turn around, I find a man staring at me expectantly. Although it’s hugely irrelevant, he’s attractive in a bland, instantly forgettable sort of way and I force myself to give him an encouraging smile. A little taller than me and a little heavier, he could be anyone. Yeah, whatever. Dressed in expensive looking gray suit trousers and a fitted black t-shirt emblazoned with ‘FCUK London’ across the chest in white, I decide both that he’s most likely a businessman stuck in the city for the night and that, well, he’ll do.

Quite frankly though, Kimura’s doppelganger could be standing in front of me and I’d still go with him. My lack of care being so all consuming, my sex life is merely a case of first in, first served. Appearances, occupations or bank balances mean nothing and, basically, who ever comes on to me first gets the dubious honor of my company for the evening. It’s that simple.

Personally, given that I don’t play the game and don’t dance, smile, or give any indication of looking like I comprehend the concept of a ‘good time’ whatsoever, I don’t know why any of these men even bother to give me a second look. They do though -- go figure -- and the longest I’ve had to wait in any of these despicable clubs is fifteen minutes before a sucker dutifully comes along and propositions me.

Show time.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man smiles, looking me up and down as though I was an expensive item in a store he was contemplating purchasing.

“I’m fine,” I reply flatly, returning his inquiring gaze and wishing that we didn’t have to go through this pointless charade of making small talk. He could simply grunt ‘fuck?’ at me and lewdly grab his crotch and the end result would be the same. These men can have my body but I’ll be damned if I’ll play their game of making puerile conversation. They don’t care about me and I don’t care about them. To pretend otherwise is nothing other than farcical.

Not knowing whether to take my response as a dismissal or not, the man decides to try again. “What’s your name?” he queries, running his fingers nervously through his short black hair and, again, looking me up and down.

“Does it matter?” I murmur, leaning forward so as to -- feign interest -- speak directly in his ear. “If it helps you can call me whatever you want.”

… Never let it be said that I’m ever anything less than the consummate professional in any and every thing that I choose do.

“I’m staying at a motel near by,” the man replies, his fear of rejection giving way to a relieved, triumphant smile. “How would you feel about joining me there?”

“Lead the way,” I purr, stepping back and eyeing him lazily. His smile broadens under my gaze, giving me the unwelcome impression that the poor fool probably thinks that this is his lucky night.

Honestly, they’re all the same.

“My name’s Toshio,” he grins, grabbing my hand as though he thinks I’m going to get away and pulling me towards the exit, “in case you’re at all interested. I live in Kyoto but I’m here in Tokyo to attend a business meeting. What about you?”

“Does it really matter?” I sigh, hating this part of the performance even more than the sex. The ones that want to talk are the worst. No. That’s not entirely true. The ones that want to talk about their lovers that are out of town and who they’re fucking around on behind their back would have to be worst. One even had a framed picture of his boyfriend on his bedside table that he felt obliged to point out to me. Refraining from telling him what little I thought of him was harder than tolerating his touch on my body. I once said to Yohji that I didn’t understand the obsessive fascination with sex and -- even now -- I still don’t.

When I’ve done it, when Yohji has written me off for the bad joke that I am, I don’t particularly care if I never have sex again. I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve got it completely and utterly wrong, but I just fail to see the point of it without there being love or at the very least genuine affection involved. God knows not one of my meaningless conquests has done a solitary thing for me other than draw out the inevitable, numbing orgasm.

“It doesn’t have to matter to me if it doesn’t matter to you,” Toshio replies over his shoulder as we stop to retrieve our coats. “Having spent the last ten minutes raising the courage to talk to you, I can’t believe you’re actually coming with me and am happy to play it however you want to play it.”

Fool.

You’re so beautiful… So hot… You could have anyone… Are you a model?… Oh baby, where have you been all my life?… If you were mine I’d never let you out of my sight…

Again, they’re all so predictable in their unimaginative sameness.

“You flatter me,” I murmur, flashing Toshio another forced smile as I pull my coat on and start to move towards the door. “I’m nothing special,” I continue, shrugging dismissively as he joins me, the truth slipping carelessly out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Truly. I’m not.”

“Well I think you’re beautiful,” Toshio beams, his eyes glittering appreciatively, “and I’m honored that you’ve decided to come with me.”

“Again, you flatter me,” I mutter, only just controlling the urge to flinch as Toshio links his arm around mine and gives me a gentle bump with his hip. The role I’ve chosen to play not giving me a choice, I tolerate his gratuitous, proprietary public display of affection and ‘bump’ him back. I even manage a soft, hollow laugh. Given that I don’t even allow Yohji to touch me in public and would quite like to break Toshio’s fingers I think, really, that I’m doing an outstanding job of remaining in character.

As usual. No change there, then.

“C’mon,” Toshio declares breathlessly, tugging on my arm to hurry me up. “You’re so hot that I can’t wait to get you naked and into bed. I bet you’re a right little wild cat between the sheets too.”

Oh, please. If Toshio turns out to be one of those men who gets off on the sound of his own voice then I might just have to find a way to work a gag into the act. How having ‘suck it bitch’ or any of those other less than charming *commands* grunted at you is supposed to help get you in the mood is one of those things that just completely escapes me. Then again, to be perfectly honest, when it comes to sex I simply don’t understand half of it. I’ve tried to get my head around it, hell, I’ve even done considerable -- literary -- research into the subject, but nothing helps.

For example, rape as a fantasy?

I…

How?

How could anyone actually fantasize about being raped? Not only that, but how could anyone get off on watching another person being systematically used and degraded?

Even just thinking about it is enough to make me feel sick to the stomach. Sixteen months have passed since I was rescued from Kimura and all it takes is for my arms to be held behind my back for me to break out in a cold sweat. The threat doesn’t even need to be real and I still freeze, both my mind and body wanting to immediately shut down in fear. I know it’s a failing, something I should take charge of and put behind me once and for all, but it’s like it’s a conditioned response, something I effectively have no real control over.

Control.

That’s what it all boils down to. I have to be in control - *always*. These men I’m whoring myself to can use my body so long as I’m unrestrained and know that I can get away if I have to. I’ve thought about taking the next step and forcing myself -- just to prove that I can -- to participate in a BDSM scene but I simply can’t do it. It’s the one thing I just can’t bring myself to do. Not even accepting that a safe word would still give me a degree of control can make me view the idea favorably. I can let strangers have my body because I want to push my lover away and I can kill in cold blood. What I can’t do however is willingly, submissively, hand over control to another.

I trust Yohji with my life yet I can’t trust him enough to so much as tie my wrists to the bed head. As irrational and as illogical as I know it to be, it’s a lingering fear that I simply can’t shake. I don’t like it, and God knows it’s a weakness, but I just can’t help it. The thought of losing control, of not being able to stop hands from pinching and stroking me, it just…

It just terrifies me.

It’s not the risk of pain, I can take that, it’s more the threat of being naked and completely reliant on the mercy of another that quite literally freaks me out. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, it’s my number one, perhaps my *only*, fear. The consequences being too shocking to contemplate, I’ll fight to the death before I allow anyone to enslave me like that again.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Toshio comments, giving me a friendly nudge in the ribs. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

Second thoughts? Christ. I doubt I’d even be capable of having a second thought if my life depended on it.

“No, of course not,” I murmur, shaking my head and biting back a sigh. “I’m just thinking about what’s to come, that’s all.”

“That’s okay then,” Toshio replies, flashing another happy smile at me as he falls hook, line and sinker for my tired, practiced response. “You won’t regret it, I promise,” he adds, his smile being replaced by a decidedly wolfish grin. “No one’s ever had cause for complaint before.”

“I’m sure they haven’t,” I respond, only just managing to sound slightly more interested in Toshio’s alleged prowess than I feel. “Are we nearly there? I’m… You know…”

… Wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as is conceivably possible.

“Trust me, I *know*,” Toshio growls, finally releasing my arm and, taking a step back, gesturing at the foyer of a motel that I can honestly say I’ve never even noticed as being here before. “Luckily we’re here. Come on. We’re just a short elevator ride away from…” Trailing off, he laughs throatily and, under the disinterested gaze of the elegantly dressed doorman, surreptitiously pinches my ass. “… bliss…”

Quashing the instinctive reaction of knocking him to the ground before spinning on my heels and stalking off, I echo his laugh and follow him past the doorman and into motel. God knows I don’t want to, but, well, what else is new? Whatever follows won’t be something I haven’t already done before. Just as whatever drivel comes out of his mouth won’t be something I haven’t heard copious times before either.

In the realms of what I’m willing to put myself through, I’ve now done it all. Eighteen nights equaling twelve different men. If not for missions interfering in my plans I suspect the count would be eighteen, one a night since reaching my decision. The fact that many would class my behavior as normal isn’t something I care to think about.

The first time was the hardest, the man’s perfunctorily handling of my body coming as more of a shock than I would have liked. He didn’t hurt me or attempt anything that I hadn’t already braced myself for, but it was still… different… to what I was used to.

Since the very beginning Yohji has always treated me as though I was something exceptionally delicate that had to be handled with both extreme care and attention. God knows, given what Kimura personally ensured I was capable of taking, he didn’t have to. But he did. Always. He was always thoughtful, always gentle, always letting me know in subtle ways that I was in charge, that he’d never hurt me. As experienced as he is, he never once made me feel inadequate or as though he was doing me some sort of favor by deigning to touch me. Yohji, and I honestly believe he achieved this without even really trying, never failed to make me feel special. Nor did he ever make me feel as though my limited repertoire in the bedroom wasn’t enough for him.

Simple things.

All he had to do was kiss me or hug me tighter in his sleep for my world to instantly appear just that little less dark. He was even capable of making me feel clean, as though I wasn’t forever tainted by what Kimura had tried his hardest to reduce me to. Most importantly, when I was with Yohji I felt loved. Sometimes, albeit all too infrequently, I even felt as though there was a chance I deserved it.

Felt.

Ever formal in what I do, I’m already viewing my relationship with Yohji in the past tense. I feel as though it should help somehow, but it doesn’t. For now at least, until Kritiker make up their mind as to what is to become of the train wreck that is now Weiss, I still go home to find him waiting up for me, his tired expression teetering between sadness and -- already -- defeat. He’s tried talking to me, but I just brush him off with airy declarations of wanting to experiment and needing some time to myself.

… “I’m sorry if you don’t like it but it’s something I feel as though I have to do. Don’t forget you had years of doing this and I think you’ve got a nerve looking down your nose at me for wanting to experience new things.”

And, because he both loves me and has so thoroughly adapted to always putting my needs before his own, he accepts my lies and forces himself to put on a brave face. I want him to yell at me or try to shake me, but -- the hold I have over him being so all-powerful -- he does nothing. I’m slowly destroying our love, our *trust*… everything we’ve so arrogantly taken for granted for so long now… and, no doubt not wanting to upset my delicate equilibrium, Yohji is simply letting me. Knowing that he’s probably making himself believe that this is just a stage I’m going through, that I’ll soon come to my senses and give him back the stability he so craves, is like a constant, crushing weight hanging over my head. All I want, for everyone’s sakes, is for it to just be over. Only then can the desperately needed moving forward begin.

Not knowing how long I can keep this behavior up before it starts to negatively impact on my effectiveness during missions, perhaps tonight might just be the night where everything comes to a head. If I go home and corner Yohji with the lie that he no longer does anything for me, that I’ve had enough of trying to pretend otherwise, maybe I’ll be able to succeed in putting our relationship out of its misery.

It’s definitely worth a try if nothing else.

Especially seeing as there’s only so much of being pawed at and slobbered on by strangers that I can take.

Speaking of which… Clearly I need to pay more attention and not let my mind wander.

“Ah… Toshio,” I mutter, backing into the waiting elevator and thankfully dislodging his mouth from the base of my throat in the process, “we’re nearly to your room, yes? Surely you can wait just that little bit longer.”

“Spoilsport,” Toshio mock pouts, putting on a show of licking his lips. “I just wanted to know if you taste as good as you look…”

Oh God…

Don’t. Please. Just, don’t.

… ‘Am I lickable or something?’

… ‘Lickable… Desirable… Memorable… Loveable…’

No.

I don’t want to remember that time. Not now and most definitely not here. To sully a precious memory like that by bringing it into such a sordid arena is just unforgivable.

And…

And Toshio’s still dribbling on.

“And, oh yeah, baby, you are *well* lickable. I just want to…”

… ‘Whether you’ve ever thought of them yourself, my love, you’re a lot of things.’

Oh hell yeah. I’m a lot of things all right.

Whore. Killer. Clinical. Detached. Hard hearted. Manipulative. Determined.

There’s even a chance I may finally be going mad. It wouldn’t surprise me greatly. Perhaps it’s even inevitable, the final outcome of a life gone to hell since Kritiker decided in all their wisdom to drag us away from Souzou. Sometimes I even think that Ken may already be there.

“When I’ve finished with you you’ll be begging for more…”

That’s it. I’ve made my mind up. Tonight it ends. Whatever it takes to get Yohji to believe I don’t want him, I’ll do it. If it means screaming at him to wake up to himself then so be it. I just can’t keep this charade up any longer. While I’m prepared to lose Yohji I nonetheless want, not that I really have any right, to keep what few pleasant memories I have as intact and as untarnished as possible.

Although, my decision having been reached and set in stone, I could now walk away from Toshio, I won’t and will see what I’ve started through. Illogically, to back out of our unspoken ‘deal’ now would be, in a sense, both cruel and unreasonable. Never having given him any reason to doubt that I’m not the same as him, a man ruled solely by his libido, going through with it is simply the easiest way of saving face. Besides, again, it’s not as though it’s anything new to me. Nor is it Toshio’s fault that I find him and his kind obnoxious.

Apples and oranges. Swings and roundabouts.

Who knows? If my life had continued meandering along as it had been, before Takatori had an epiphany that saw the word ‘scapegoat’ tattooed in blood on father’s forehead, perhaps I would have -- willingly -- ended up at this exact same point entirely of my own accord. Doubtful, maybe, but certainly not impossible. Although it feels like a lifetime or three ago, I was actually normal once. If I concentrate really hard I can sometimes even remember what it was like. School, looking out for my little sister, homework, friends, family… Simple, good times. Uncomplicated.

Normal is as normal does though, I suppose. The life I have now *is* normal to me. Even this, this relentless fucking of strangers, isn’t completely outside of Kritiker’s -- and subsequently my own -- purview. Assume the role, see the mission through, do whatever it takes, failure is not an option, the result cancels out the means. Fight. Fuck. Steal. Lie. Assume the identity. Kill. Play nice. Play dead. Play the role to perfection. Play at being a functional member of society.

Play at having no heart.

Whatever it takes.

“So, Toshio, what room number?” I murmur, flicking an invisible switch in my head and slipping back into character. “Please tell me it’s close. All your talk, it’s made me…”

“We’re here, we’re here,” Toshio interrupts, his voice thick with desire as he fumbles over pulling a door pass out of his pocket. “I know they say patience is a virtue but in this case they’re *so* wrong,” he continues, unlocking the door and, grabbing my hand, pulling me into the room.

I’ve barely managed to kick the door closed before he’s on me again, his hands scrabbling over my chest and shoulders, my clothing clearly running interference in whatever it is he has planned for me. “Want… you… naked…” he gasps, flashing a happy grin at me as he finally succeeds in pushing my coat off my shoulders. “Wanna see you… all of you.”

The inclination to reply in kind not exactly being forthcoming, I remain silent and -- actions speaking louder than words -- reach for Toshio’s t-shirt. Speed apparently being of the essence, he bats my hands away and yanks the t-shirt over his head, throwing it carelessly on the floor before swiftly reaching for the buttons on my shirt.

“So, my beautiful, nameless one, what can I do for you?” Toshio murmurs breathily in my ear. “What do you like?”

What -- little -- I like not being something Toshio could ever give me, I give a wan smile and shrug. “I like whatever you like,” I reply, mustering the energy required to feign an appreciative glance at his torso. “So, you tell me what I can do for you.”

His hands stilling on the final button of my shirt, Toshio cocks his head to one side and peers at me, a hint of suspicion flickering across his flushed face. “If you… ah… charge, do you mind if I pay now, before things go any further,” he states matter-of-factly. “I don’t care. Hell, you name a price and I’ll gladly pay it. I’d just like to know now, that’s all.”

Damn. So much for believing my own publicity in regards to my acting abilities.

“I’m free for the taking,” I murmur, swatting his hand away and, undoing the last button, shrugging out of my shirt. “I’m merely…” Pausing, I sigh theatrically and hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my leather trousers. “… obliging…”

Nodding mutely, Toshio’s eyes widen at the sight of the scarring on my waist. “Wow…”

Don’t tell me, let me guess, you used to be a goth but you’re all right now… Cool… Surely that’s not a name?… That’s… ah… different… Hey, wanna see the scar from where I fell off my bike when I was seven?

Come on, Toshio. Pass comment, fuck me, get it over and done with.

Whatever it takes.

I can do this.

~*~

The sound of Toshio’s truly inspired snoring assuring me that he’s passed out in a state of post-coital, orgasmic bliss, I wriggle out from beneath the dead weight of his arm flung over my chest and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. He mumbles something in his sleep but doesn’t wake. For no other reason than I don’t want the chill of the air-conditioning waking him, I pull the comforter up over Toshio before picking up my clothes and slipping into the bathroom.

While I’d like nothing more than to have a shower, I know that I can’t, that I have to carry the stench of his spilt desire home on me. My skin crawls as I pull my clothes on but, yet again, it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before. Same old, same old. Toshio was no better or worse than any of the others but I still resent the lingering memory of his touch. In particular, although the detached part of me views it as unmistakable proof, a slap in the face that can be neither missed nor dismissed, I resent the rapidly blossoming love bite Toshio felt compelled to suck into the side of the throat. I could have stopped him. Of course. I didn’t though. I just, even as he sucked at my neck and rubbed his erection against my hip like an over eager dog, lay there planning my next move. Quite frankly, for all I was interested in Toshio’s ministrations I could have just as easily been lying on my bed back at the apartment, writing a shopping list in my head.

In a way I feel sorry both for Toshio and for having used him. I have no doubt that he’s happy with his side of the deal, but still… To him we used each other to fulfill a mutual need while to me he was nothing more than the last in a long line of stepping stones that I’ve walked all over in the name of my goal. I may not know him but I’m sure that he deserves better.

Dressed, I make the mistake of pausing to look in the mirror. The reflection that stares back at me is that of a hollow eyed, lank haired -- fucked, literally -- stranger. Writers and poets wax lyrical about pale skin being a thing of beauty but all I look is sick, my paleness succeeding only in making me appear washed out and wan. I know that the lighting in motel bathrooms is notoriously harsh but even taking that into consideration I still look ill, like someone who’s been out of it for so long that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to live. Having intentionally left my shirt half unbuttoned to show it off, Toshio’s love bite stands out starkly against the whiteness of my flesh and only serves to add to my ghoulish appearance. With my ghostly pallor, black clothes and now my bruised throat, I give the impression of harboring delusions of wanting to be a vampire. How Toshio or any of the men before him found me beautiful is quite seriously beyond me. What I’m staring at is more to be avoided and perhaps pitied than desired.

Shaking my head, I turn the light off and walk out of the bathroom. Sprawled across the mattress and still snoring, Toshio remains dead to the world. Pausing by the door, I look at him and feel nothing. So long as my punters were all of the vanilla persuasion, there’s just no help for it, I really could make it as a whore. Suck, fuck, leave. Then again, for all I know this, this *nothingness*, could be just how everyone feels as they walk away from a one-night-stand.

Silently wishing Toshio a happy life, I leave the room, carefully making sure that the door is shut firm behind me before starting to walk towards the elevator. A well-dressed, elderly woman walking down the corridor shoots me a disapproving look and makes ‘tsking’ sounds under her breath. Shamed by her open censure -- ‘the filthy, perverted, idle youth of today’ -- I find that I can’t look her in the eye and bow my head. Having no one to blame for this state of affairs other than myself, the old lady’s reaction shouldn’t bother me but it does. First impressions holding so much weight, she only had to look at me to know instinctively that I’m bad news.

Deciding to give the elevator a miss for fear of being trapped in a confined space with others who might feel compelled to peer down their noses at me, I take the stairs and hurry out of the motel. The doorman smirks as he holds the door open for me and it takes a concentrated effort to ignore him. Like the old woman, it’s clear what he thinks of me. Tonight for some reason I’m keenly aware of the wanton picture I must paint and I hate it. I know the reasons behind what I’m putting myself through but those who are stereotyping me wouldn’t have a clue. To them I’m just, for the want of a better description, common.

I doubt I could crawl further backwards if I tried.

Actually…

My only hope is that I *have* crawled as far back as I have to go to achieve my aim. If I haven’t then I honestly don’t know where I can go to from this point.

Then again, whatever it takes. If I have to keep crawling away from everything I’ve ever loved and wanted until I’m so far in the dark that I can no longer see so much as hint of light then -- for the greater good -- so be it.

Whatever it takes.

~*~

Parking the car in the garage, I note with no real degree of surprise that Ken’s bike isn’t in its designated spot and, not for the first time, wonder just where it is that he goes every night. We’ve lived in this dump for a little over three weeks now and I don’t think Ken has spent a single night here. If there’s a mission he hangs around just long enough to do his bit before simply shooting through. I’ve thought about activating the GPS on his bike or perhaps even following him but so far, too intent on my own sick game of night clubbing it and fucking around, I haven’t gotten around to doing either. Looking worse for wear and as though he’s chewed through a few more inches of his tether, he reappears by mid morning at the latest and, well, that’s just it. He doesn’t volunteer any information and we don’t ask.

If Omi knows anything about Ken’s nocturnal disappearing act then, like just about everything these days, he’s keeping it to himself. I once thought that their relationship would withstand just about everything, that their love for each other was strong enough to keep them together through anything the world could throw at them, but it looks like I was wrong. I suspect, if anything, they now talk even less than Yohji and I do. Like too many things, remembering what they used to have together actually carries its own twinge of physical pain.

As for Yohji’s opinions on the subject… Well, having other things to worry about, I seriously don’t think he even cares one way or the other whether Ken’s around or not.

For reasons as varied as how we came to be thrown together in the first place, Weiss are disintegrating at the seams. Although Kritiker refuse to admit it, their decision to take us from Souzou and put us on the road like some sort of traveling freak show was really, to my way of thinking anyway, the beginning of the end. Maybe we *didn’t* deserve the happiness and maybe we *were* becoming complacent (although I failed to ever see any proof of this myself), but I still think Kritiker made a mistake. Quite a considerable one at that. They could have redeemed themselves slightly by letting us return to Souzou -- to lick our wounds and regroup -- after we’d done everything and more that had been asked of us, but no. Given that it’s currently doubling as a convalescent home for injured or stressed out Kritiker agents, I find it almost ironic that our request to return, even if for only a week or two, was denied. God knows it’s not like we wouldn’t have fitted right in.

If we happen to be part of some bigger picture that we’re being kept in the dark about then I seriously think Kritiker need to stop playing their cards so close to their chest before it’s too late. We may be all but owned by the agency but, contrary to the opinion of some members of the Kritiker hierarchy, they don’t control us. Not completely at any rate. While we may very rarely show it, we’re still capable of both independent thought and action. And, right now, given how empty and directionless we’re all feeling, simply leaving us to our own devices is just about the worst thing Kritiker could possibly have done.

I think… No. I *know* that they have to be up to something, that the reason we’re currently in limbo is because they’re not quite ready for us yet. Singapura has been recalled to Germany for the time being and, because Manx is hardly ever around, there’s not even anyone we can turn to for a straight answer. On top of everything else, it’s enough to send my frustration levels skyrocketing. Whatever they’ve got up their sleeve I wish they’d just hit us with it and put us out of our collective misery. Given the stagnant state of our current existence I very much doubt it could be any worse than what it is they’re already putting us through. That said, craving the change, I don’t really care what the assignment -- *when* they deign to give it to us -- turns out to be.

Just about anything would have to be better than this.

For the first time Kritiker haven’t bothered to give us a cover, a day job to wile away the hours before melting into the darkness and hunting the unlucky ‘dark beast’ whose card has been marked by a, hopefully altruistic, higher body. No flower shop, no garden and no cramped and claustrophobic van. Hell, no flowers period. While I never thought this would be the case, I miss them. The flowers that is, not the repellent van. If I ever have to step foot in a motor home again then it’ll still be too soon.

Four people, regardless of what they’ve been through together and how they feel about each other, simply shouldn’t be made to live in a barely glorified doghouse on wheels. They just shouldn’t. While the van may not have caused our problems nor did it exactly help them. Offering little in the way of privacy and personal space, I have to profess to being slightly surprised that we managed to survive it as well as we did. We argued a lot though, about petty things that held no meaning and that we’d always been able to brush aside in the past. Ken hated Yohji’s smoking. Yohji hated there being only one television set and Ken’s insistence that, if there was a game of soccer on somewhere, *anywhere*, he had to watch it. I hated, amongst a myriad other, equally as meaningless things, the sound of the television set *and* the sound of Omi tapping away on the computer keyboard for all hours of the night. Omi in turn hated how tetchy we were all becoming and, wanting to keep out of everyone’s way in case he inadvertently pushed buttons, turned his attention more and more frequently to the computer.

The longer the road back to Tokyo got, and the more Kritiker extended the ‘tour’, the harder it all became. By the time we were finally allowed to wave the despicable vehicle goodbye we’d have been lucky if we’d been managing three hours of sleep a night between us, the nightmares caused -- amongst other things -- by our mock battle to the death plaguing and destroying everyone’s rest.

It not being something I particularly wanted to keep count of, I have no idea how many nights Ken and I steadfastly ignored each other’s presence while, scrunched in too small bunks, we tried to soothe away our lover’s nightmares, their remembered pain. Even now, four months on, the nightmares still haunt them, their cries, plaintive for Omi and panicked for Yohji, ringing out through the apartment on a far too frequent a basis. Not that I think either of them sleep much. Even Yohji, despite there being no reason to, is up in the early hours of the morning now, the need for his dual addictions of caffeine and nicotine being greater than that of his need for sleep. As for Ken, if he sleeps at all, which logic dictates he has to, then, well, he simply has to be doing it somewhere else. Where that somewhere might be however is anyone’s guess.

Again, there’s really no other way of looking at it other than that we’re disintegrating. The only thing that’s keeping a tenuous hold on Weiss still barely functioning as a team are our missions. Only in order to kill do we come out of our self-imposed corners and band together as one. Well, sort of. We fight together, just as we always have, but even so little things are still different. Yohji’s new interest in small explosive devices and Omi’s apparent desire to play his part more through his computer skills than actually participating physically, I can more or less accept and, to an extent, comprehend. Ken, however, I’m slightly worried about. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s *enjoying* his admittedly bloodier than usual method of fighting nor would I say that it’s exactly weighing heavily on his conscience either.

With nothing to fill our day in with, time drags with insufferable slowness, leaving us with a never ending stream of hours in which to listen to our self-doubts and, in turn, toy with ideas about what we can do to make things better. That, to the best of my knowledge anyway, is all that we do though. We think and we worry and we plot and we unravel just that little more around the edges and… And that’s it. Not even Omi has made any attempt to lighten the subdued, oppressive mood, the mood that we’ve all now come to accept as normal.

Accepting. Resigned.

We live together, and we still operate under the name of Weiss, yet we’re now little more than strangers being forced to co-habit because there’s nowhere else we can think of going. As with everything, I hate it. I hate what we’ve become and I hate the fact that we’re slowly losing everything we were once able to draw a modicum of comfort or happiness from.

I can’t remember the last time anyone’s smile reached their eyes. Hell, we don’t even talk any more. Omi hardly every detaches himself from the network of computers he has set up in his room, Ken, when he’s around, loses himself in the ceaseless task of taking out, with as much prejudice as is conceivably possible, Sony created villains on the PS2, Yohji chain smokes while constantly watching me out of the corner of his eye, and I…

And I do nothing.

My life, my, dare I say, *happiness* of the past year falling down like a house of cards around me being of no major concern of mine, I just sit back and watch it fall. Sure, I *could* do something -- although off the top of my head I’m at a loss to know what exactly I’d be capable of doing -- but, self absorbed to the bitter end, I don’t. My mind made up that, really, this is for the best, not even knowing that my friends are suffering can make me want to do anything other than hasten along what we all surely know has to be inevitable. If, unable to recreate the sense of unity we once had, we all go our separate ways then it will be better for everyone. I’m not saying it won’t hurt but, ultimately, it’ll be for the best. It has to be.

One way or the other though, something has just got to give. We can’t go on this way indefinitely, existing in a void while we wait for things to miraculously improve. Again, whatever Kritiker are expecting of Weiss they’d better hurry up and share it with us before it’s simply too late.

Biting back a sigh -- sitting here ruing the state of my life not going to achieve what needs achieving -- I get out of the car and, pulling the roller door down behind me, leave the garage. Although it’s just gone three AM, lights burn in every window of our ground floor apartment, telling me in no uncertain terms that -- again, same old, same old -- tonight is no different to every other night. Omi will be engrossed in whatever the hell it is that he’s doing with all of his computers and, pretending to be watching television, Yohji will be lying in wait for my return. As for all the lights being on? Well, they ward off shadows and the threat of constant, suffocating darkness, don’t they…

Tonight though, something’s going to be different. Wanting to push until I get a reaction, I won’t make a point of ignoring Yohji and going straight to my room.

Tonight… whatever it takes… at least something is going to finally come to an end.

Reaching the front door, I’m in the process of unlocking it when I’m stopped by the sound of a plaintive meow and the sensation of a small furry head being butted against my left ankle. Although visible only to the feline eye, I’m slowly reaching the conclusion that I have to have the word ‘sucker’ emblazoned across my back because I swear every stray cat in the neighborhood sees me as some sort of free meal ticket. We’d only been here a day before they started materializing on the doorstep, their poor scrawny bodies so clearly malnourished that I was inside digging around for something to feed them with even before I really knew what it was I was doing. Omi, oddly enough, ignored them. What’s even odder is the fact that, his mind so obviously elsewhere these days, he still ignores them. Which, let’s face it, is something the ‘old’ Omi never would have done.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, glancing down and shaking my head at the black cat that I think has to be the group’s nominated leader. Of all the cats he’s certainly both the boldest and the pushiest. Having been too tired to hunt down food one night, he paid me back by sitting on my windowsill and singing a lament that wouldn’t have been out of place in an operatic tragedy until I got up and threw half the contents of the fridge at him to shut him up. “Not exactly having anything edible hidden in my coat you’ll have to give me a minute.”

Meowing again, the cat sits down on the doormat and, wrapping its scraggly tail around its body, looks up at me expectantly.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” I murmur, opening the door and stepping inside. As always I barely suppress a shudder of revulsion at the sight and smell of our second-rate accommodation. Temporary though it may be, I don’t know what Kritiker are playing at by making us live here. While my first impressions of the Dragon’s Tears were bad, this place is by far worse. Tiny rooms, barely adequate furnishings, walls that are ingrained with dirt and carpet that’s resistant to all forms of cleaning - as far as I’m concerned it’s a hovel barely fit for human habitation and I resent every second that I have to spend here. I don’t think I’m precocious about my surroundings but this apartment, I feel, is most definitely below standard.

Then again, if compared to Souzou I suppose just about everywhere could be viewed as substandard.

I wish…

Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matters is the present, the here and now, and what it is that I know I have to do.

Hanging my coat on the hook, I undo another button my shirt and flare out the collar, drawing attention to Toshio’s love bite. That done, I mentally brace myself for what’s to come and sidle through the living room into the kitchen. As expected Yohji is sprawled across the sofa, the television tuned to some inane, allegedly amusing sitcom. I don’t bother offering a greeting, not even when he drags himself into an upright position and pads silently after me.

Leaning against the doorframe, Yohji watches me as I busy myself looking around for something to feed the cats with. Dressed in loose fitting cargo pants that sit far too low on his lean hips and an unbuttoned black shirt that shows off the still angry looking wound caused by the bullet entering just to the right of his navel, he well and truly looks exhausted, as though sheer willpower alone is keeping him awake. Not wanting to see proof of either his injury or his recent weight loss, I make a point of not looking at him too closely. If I could, if there was even the slimmest chance it wouldn’t be a mistake, I’d like nothing more than take him in my arms and reassure him that things are going to work out.

Knowing it would be a mistake though, I can’t.

The light is far brighter in the kitchen than it is in the living room, meaning there’s no way he could have missed the mark on my neck, yet still he remains silent. Accusing, pain filled eyes bore into me as, finding that we’re out of cat-food, I decide that the cats will have to make do with the left-over pizza that’s sitting barely touched and discarded on the table.

I could make the first move, but, not wanting to appear too obvious, too eager, I won’t.

Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I pick up the box containing the congealed, and quite frankly unappetizing looking pizza and carry it over to the sink. Although it’s doubtful the cats, their street survival skills dictating that they eat whatever’s on offer, would care, I’m not of the opinion that capsicum or onion would be ideal for the feline digestive system and carefully remove all the offending pieces before closing the box and making to walk out of the room.

“Good evening?” Yohji queries blandly, pushing himself away from the doorframe and blocking my exit. “I was beginning to wonder if you were even going to bother coming home.”

“Excuse me,” I murmur dismissively, standing back and tapping impatiently on the lid of the pizza box. “You’re in my way.” Up this close I can smell beer on Yohji’s breath and allow myself a fleeting, grim, smile. Good. If he’s been drinking then, his defenses already lowered by the alcohol in his system, I stand a far better chance of achieving my goal.

“Forgive me for daring to be in your presence,” Yohji mutters, stepping back from the door and mock bowing. “I suppose, really, I should just feel honored that you’re here at all.”

Ignoring Yohji’s sarcasm, I stalk past him and back into the living room. Beer cans litter the floor and the stench of cigarette smoke hanging heavily in the air is almost overpowering. Home sweet home. Making an annoyed sound under my breath, I shoot Yohji a disgusted look before continuing on my way to the front door. As though he can’t bear to let me out of his sight, Yohji trails after me like my very own personal shadow.

Opening the door, I walk outside and place the pizza a short distance away from the doormat. I’ve barely straightened up before the black cat is circling my legs and chirruping contentedly. “See? I told you I’d be back,” I murmur, crouching down and rubbing the cat between the ears, causing him to purr and push up against my hand. “Don’t blame me if you don’t like it though as I had nothing to do with ordering it.”

“Sometimes I think those cats are all that you care about,” Yohji comments flatly from his position just inside the door. “You should hear yourself, Aya. You’ve just said more to that black cat than you’ve said to me in the past few days. Is it perhaps because you know it can’t talk back, is that it?”

“If it’s okay with you, I miss Kiri,” I state, standing up and shrugging as two more cats materialize out of the darkness and surreptitiously inch their way towards the food. “Besides, what would you rather I do, not feed them and simply leave them to starve?”

“That wasn’t what I said at all and you know it,” Yohji sighs. “Hell, if you wanna feed and talk to stray cats then you can damn well go for it. At least while you’re showing a semblance of care for *something* I can kid myself that I still know you.”

Here we go. Show time. Act two, the finale.

“What are you talking about?” I snap, walking back towards the door. “Given that you’re not making a lot of sense perhaps you’d just like to go and have another beer and leave me the hell alone.”

“Like you’d have any concept of the meaning of the word ‘sense’,” Yohji snorts, positioning himself in the doorway and once again blocking my path. “For fuck’s sake, Aya, like anything makes any fucking sense at the moment.”

Oh yeah. Definitely show time. Yohji’s pissed both literally and figuratively and, having been left in his own company for too long, is clearly spoiling for a fight. A fight that, having spent far too long planning it, I’m all too prepared to supply him with at that.

“You’re in my way,” I scowl, standing on the doormat and glowering at Yohji. “*Again*.”

“And that’s just it, isn’t it?” Yohji retorts, making no move to back away from the door. “These days I’m always in your way. No. Not just me. We’re all in your way, aren’t we, Aya? It’s like you can’t stand being around us any more.”

“That’s right, lay all the blame at my feet,” I sneer, pushing past Yohji and knocking him against the wall in the process. “At least I’m doing something other than lying around making a permanent dint in the sofa and making the whole apartment smell like a fucking bar. Wake up, Yohji. Life isn’t constant. People change and life moves on.”

“Doing something?” Yohji echoes in amazement, slamming the door shut and, reaching out, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Is that what you call this new habit of yours, huh?” he continues, spinning me around and shoving me hard up against the wall. “From where I was sitting it looked for all the world like you were simply fucking around. Silly me though. I should have known, given the *unique* way your mind operates, you’d have another name for it.”

“Let me go,” I snarl, glaring at Yohji but making no real attempt to get away. We both know that I could, if I really wanted to, and that, for now, is all that has to matter. “Again, at least I’m trying to move on and am not just lounging around feeling sorry for myself.”

“Was he good, huh?” Yohji mutters, letting go of my shoulder only to roughly grab the collar of my shirt. “Going on the mark you let him leave on you he must have had something special going for him.”

“He was pretty good, yeah,” I reply coyly, meeting Yohji’s gaze and despising how empty his eyes look. Knowing that I’m the cause of his pain only hardens my resolve though as it reinforces my opinion that I’m the one solely responsible for it. “One of the better ones at any rate.”

“Good, yeah?” Yohji states coldly, wrenching my collar down and tearing the shirt apart in the process, exposing my torso. “Define good for me, Aya. Big cock? Long tongue? Incredible staying power?” Pausing, he suddenly grabs my wrists and wrenches my arms above my head. “Or maybe you’ve discovered that you like it rough… You don’t deserve love so maybe you now think you deserve the pain, is that it, huh? Did he hold you down and have his way with you while you begged for more? ”

“You’re drunk,” I retort icily, instinct alone making me try and pull away from Yohji’s gasp. Knowing what it does to me, he’s never restrained me like this before and, although God alone knows I have no right to feel this way, I have to say that I’m somewhat taken aback by it. “If you want to talk to me, Yohji, then I have to insist that we do it when you’re sober and not talking complete rubbish. Now, let me go!”

“No. I won’t let you go,” Yohji responds, his expression just about as hard as I can ever recall having seen it. “Not until you tell me what these… these *men*… are giving you that I’m not. Come on, Aya. Spill. They’re clearly giving you something and, Goddamn it, I fucking want to know what it is! If you don’t tell me then I’ll have no other option than to believe you’ve suddenly developed a taste for the rough side of sex. Am I right, huh? Is being treated with uncaring contempt what does it for you now?”

Backing his words up with actions, Yohji closes one hand tightly around my wrists, pressing them against the wall, while he uses his free hand to grab roughly at my crotch. Bowing his head, he then leans forward and starts to kiss my throat, his lips and tongue feeling like sandpaper against my already tender skin.

Everything shutting down in horror -- too close, too close, oh God far, far too close -- I try to push him off but temper is either making him stronger than I am or, fear driven instinct kicking in, I’m just floundering as I can’t manage to get him away from me. “Yohji,” I whisper faintly, panic well and truly beginning to settle in. While it would serve me right in so many ways, not to mention in a round about sort of way issue me with a reason to return the hate I so desperately want him to feel for me, I can’t…

… I can’t let this happen.

“Yohji…”

Hate me. Scream at me. You can even hit me if you honestly think it would help.

But not this.

Please, not this.

“… Please…”

My voice finally penetrating the fog of anger in Yohji’s head, he looks up at me through far too bright eyes and, abruptly letting me go, takes a hurried step backwards. “Oh my God… Aya! I’m… Oh shit… I’m so sorry,” he stammers, running a hand repeatedly through his hair. “I’m… Fuck! I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t… I never…” Trailing off, he spins on his heels and takes off down the corridor. “I… Oh God… I need a drink.”

Pushing myself away from the wall, I fight to get my breathing under control and slowly follow Yohji into the kitchen. I’m now, although I hardly thought it possible, even number than I was when I slipped out of Toshio’s motel room.

“Don’t… *ever*… do that to me again,” I state flatly, folding my arms across my chest and narrowing my eyes at Yohji as, leaning against the fridge, he tries his hardest to down a can of beer in one long gulp. “I mean it. I…”

“I’m sorry,” Yohji interrupts hollowly, unconsciously closing his hand too forcefully around the can, mangling it out of shape. “Aya, please… You’ve got to believe me. I… I never meant to… to do that to you! Shit! I’m sorry. You know me. I’d never…”

“You did,” I interject, not wanting to hear his apologies because, deep down, I know I’m neither deserving nor worthy of them, “and that’s all there is to it. You know how I…”

“I know,” Yohji murmurs pleadingly, “that’s why I’m so sorry. I never should have said those things and I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. If I could take the moment back God knows that I would. It’s just…” Pausing, Yohji glances with obvious surprise at the misshapen can in his hand before shaking his head and lobbing it into the sink. “It’s… It’s just that I feel as though I’m losing you, Aya, that you’re cutting yourself off from me for some reason.”

“And that gives you the right to manhandle me?” I scowl. “If that’s what you’re thinking then have I got news for you. What I do with my time is, ultimately, down to me and me alone. I’m sorry if that doesn’t sit quite right with your worldview but that’s just how it is. You don’t own me.”

“No,” Yohji replies, getting another can of beer out of the fridge before slowly wandering past me and back into the living room. “Hell, right now I don’t even feel as though I know you any more. Things… Come on, Aya. Admit it. Things haven’t been right between us since I got shot. Is that it, huh? Are you pissed at me because I was stupid enough to walk in front of a bullet?”

God he’s good. No matter how hard I try he’s always able to see at least partly through me. In fact, knowing me and accepting me for what I am and never trying to make me something I’m not capable of being is one of the main reasons that I love him.

But…

My mantra, I can’t forget it.

Whatever it takes.

“Getting shot has nothing to do with it,” I retort, shifting around the doorframe and leaning my back against the living room wall. “I’ll admit it was somewhat… incompetent… of you, but that’s all.”

“Could have fooled me,” Yohji sighs, slumping down heavily on the sofa, his entire appearance screaming of dejection. “You’ve been cool… no… you’ve been fucking avoiding me like I had some sort of nasty contagious disease ever since then, so forgive me for thinking my… *incompetence*… at having been shot might have had something to do with it. Get this, Aya. We’ve been here for, what, three weeks now, yeah, and tonight, while you were out, was the first time I’ve dared enter your room.”

“And just what the hell were you doing in there?” I query sullenly, not really that surprised by Yohji’s peculiar confession. “If you were looking for a diary then, sorry to have to break this to you, I don’t keep one.”

“Fuck no. That would mean having to be capable of some sort of emotional outpouring, wouldn’t it?” Yohji mutters, shrugging wearily. “And God forbid you so much as consider attempting something so futile, so *human* as that.”

“Go to hell, Yohji,” I grind out, deriving no satisfaction from the fact that this, the end, is going to be easier to achieve than I thought. So caught up in my twisted game I hadn’t truly paused to see how much Yohji was hurting or how far I’d already pushed him. “First you try to molest me and now you insult me. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake coming back.”

“Why did you then?” Yohji queries, both his eyes and his voice curiously devoid of emotion. “You’re making it pretty clear that there’s nothing here for you, so why come back? I’m sure your fuck… ooops, my mistake… *lover* of the evening would have been delighted to have had another round with you.”

“I don’t need to hear this,” I state coldly. “Just because you’ve been lying on your ass feeling sorry for yourself it doesn’t give you any right to take your, considerable, I might add, frustrations out on me. Again, you don’t own me.”

“No one can own ice,” Yohji murmurs, taking a long swallow of beer and toasting me with the can. “You might think you can, and you might even do everything in your power to keep it, but it still just ends up melting away on you.”

“Beer fuelled analogies, whatever next?” I mutter drily. “I’m sorry if my behavior isn’t pleasing you but, well, it is my life after all. As I’ve told you before though, what I’m doing, I’m doing only because I choose to. We all need our diversions. You’ve got your drinking and…”

“And you’ve got your newly discovered fascination for fucking around,” Yohji finishes for me. “I know you couldn’t give a flying fuck about my opinion, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. What you’re doing, it isn’t you. I’m not entirely sure what your reasons are but I’m nonetheless confident that they’re not simply because you’ve just discovered a kink in your libido. I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got some ulterior motive, I’m sure of it.”

“News flash, Yohji, people *are* capable of changing,” I reply, digging my hands in my pockets, once again drawing attention to my ripped shirt and love-bite. As though unable to help himself, Yohji’s eyes are drawn to my torso and throat, his expression more one of sadness though than anger or disgust. “What we had was great, don’t get me wrong, but it… it was becoming stifling. I’ll wear your name with pride until my dying day, and, whether you accept it from me or not, I’ll be forever in your debt, but…”

“But I’m not enough for you now, is that it?” Yohji interrupts resignedly. “Actually, no, more to the point, nothing’s enough for you at the moment, is it? Not the van. Not this shitty apartment. Not Weiss. Hell, what about Kritiker, are they on your hit list as well?”

“Kritiker are displeasing me too, yes,” I respond matter-of-factly. “The whole road trip from hell was bad, but simply being left in this Godforsaken place to rot is like adding insult to already smarting injury. I hate it. The stagnancy is suffocating.”

Sighing, Yohji stretches his arms out along the back of the sofa and fixes me with a long-suffering look. “Okay then, Aya, what *do* you want?” he queries softly. “If you don’t want me and you don’t want Weiss, what is it that you *do* currently want?”

What I want? Christ. What I want isn’t something I allow myself to waste time thinking about. Off the top of my head though, right at this very moment I’d like nothing more than to come clean to Yohji about the charade I’m putting him through before, seeking absolution, curling up on the sofa next to him and resting my head on his shoulder.

“I want…”

Damn it! Unable to think of anything so much as halfway viable to say, I fall silent and resort to glaring at Yohji. If in doubt, glare. It’s just about my most favored fallback.

“Before, outside with the cats,” Yohji murmurs, his suddenly too bright green eyes meeting mine unflinchingly, “you said that you miss Kiri. Would you believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say you miss anything. I’ve never heard you say that you miss your sister or your old life, yet for some reason you miss a cat. Now, please, I want you think before you answer this… Is Kiri really all that you miss though? I don’t know about you but I miss Souzou. Regardless of how we come to live there, we were -- and even you’ve got to admit this -- happy there, yeah?”

“Of course I miss Souzou,” I confess, sighing, “and, yes, we were happy there. Happiness though… It’s not something that lasts.”

“Why not?” Yohji queries bluntly. “Why can’t it last, huh? Don’t tell me you’re going to issue forth with that ‘deserving’ crap again. Take lives. Don’t deserve happiness. Blah, blah, fucking blah. I thought you were over all that rubbish.”

“But nothing is lasting in this world,” I quote softly, a long ago memorized passage jumping into my head and striking me as perfect for the moment. “Even joy begins to fade after only one minute. Two minutes later, and it is weaker still, until finally it is swallowed up in our everyday, prosaic state of mind, just as a ripple made by a pebble gradually merges with the smooth surface of the water…” Trailing off, I look at Yohji and shrug.

“Christ,” Yohji groans, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse, the undeserving song and dance you’re so freakin’ fond of or having fucking existentialism thrown in my face. Nice quote though, any more you’ve got up your sleeve that you’d like to hit me with?”

“For your information it’s got nothing to do with existentialism,” I scowl. “It’s, not that this will mean anything to an illiterate heathen such as yourself, from ‘The Nose’ by Nikolai Gogol. I thought it was rather apt. Not to mention, if nothing else, a change from my usual, as you so delightfully call it, song and dance. If you think about it, it’s true too.”

“Fuck you, Aya,” Yohji mutters dully, leaning forward and snatching up a cigarette and his lighter from the decrepit looking coffee table. “I’m sure I’m wasting my breath here, but I’ll ask again,” he continues, lighting the smoke and, with a sigh of relief, bringing it to his lips. “Come on. What gives, huh? Failing that, and you’ve gotta be able to answer me at least *something*, what is it that you think you freakin’ want?”

“What I want is a change,” I reply, shrugging as nonchalantly as I can manage. “I’m tired of being cramped together like this and… And I’m tired of just about everything, okay? Yes, things were fine before the van and the whole General Powell saga, but they’re not now and -- I don’t know about you -- I need a change. I can’t tolerate things the way they are any longer.”

“You can’t!” Yohji exclaims, jumping to his feet and gesturing at me angrily. “Well, fuck! That’s just it then. Have you, oh, I don’t know, ever stopped to consider how the rest of us might be feeling? Ken, I swear, is a hair trigger away from going postal while Omi is turning into one of those scary creatures who can’t function away from their computers. As for me, I…”

Falling silent, Yohji shoots me a hurt look and shrugs. “What’s the point? You clearly don’t care.”

“Of course I care,” I retort flatly. “My priorities may be different but I still care. Something has got to give and we all know it. Weiss are no longer the unit we once were and, although I don’t really want to have to be saying this, perhaps it will be in all our best interests if we go our separate ways.”

“Don’t sugar coat it by throwing ‘perhaps’ into the conversation,” Yohji responds, slowly pacing the length of the sofa like a caged tiger. “You’ve made your mind up. You know it and, sorry if this doesn’t quite sit right with you, I know you well enough to know it too. Why don’t you just come out and say it, Aya? I’m a big boy. If you don’t love me or… hell, want anything to do with me… then why don’t you just fucking come out with it, huh?”

“Because…”

Here we are at the crossroads of my making and I can’t even say what I know has to be said.

“Come on, Aya!” Yohji interrupts, stopping his pacing and, giving the sofa a vicious kick, glaring at me intently. “This is your show after all. Come on, this is what you want, isn’t it? The final showdown between us so, your past absolved once and for all, you can go on your merry way without a care in the damn world, yes? Well, come on! Let me fucking have it! If you don’t love me then fucking tell it to my face instead of slithering around and putting yourself through things I *know* you’d really rather not be doing. Contrary to your, to your mind anyway, *superior* opinion, I’m not as stupid as you think I am and… And… And although I know I can’t change things I… I still love you and, however twisted your reasons, don’t want you to be suffering...”

His rant over, Yohji slumps back down on the sofa and grabs another cigarette. Although I doubt he’s even aware of it, silent tears stream down his cheeks and his hands shake as he fumbles over lighting his smoke. “I… I’ll always love you,” he adds quietly, his voice barely above that of a whisper. “Whatever you think of me and whatever it is you’ve decided you want from life, Aya, you’ll always be in my heart.”

“It’s for the best,” I murmur lamely, pulling my hands out my pockets and wearily rubbing them over my face. “You’ve… You’ve got to believe me. Things might seem bad now and… and maybe I have gone about things the wrong way… but in time you’ll see that this… that this is right. I know I’m repeating myself, but people change. *I’ve* changed.”

“You haven’t changed,” Yohji replies, glancing up at me through tear filled eyes and slowly shaking his head. “I thought you had. I even thought you were happy with things… with *us*. I can see now that I was a wrong. I hate to say this to someone I love, but you’re like a snake, Aya. Not only are you cold blooded but, just like a snake, you have no qualms about shedding your skin and simply moving on. First Aya-chan and now me…”

“Don’t… Just…” His words cutting deep, I don’t know what to say and, feeling flustered, fall silent. There’s no help for it though, nothing hurts as much as the cold, hard truth being thrown up in your face.

“Burning bridges is all well and good, Aya,” Yohji continues softly, “but one day you’ll find yourself trapped on an island with nothing left to burn. People love and care for you but there’s something twisted in your psyche that refuses to accept what it is that you’re so freely given.”

“I… I do what I have to,” I whisper, the desire to be having this argument having well and truly up and deserted me. “You mightn’t see it now but we’ll both be better off out of this relationship.”

“Whatever,” Yohji mutters, saluting me with his cigarette. “You win, okay. I love you but I can’t fight what it is that I don’t know. You’ve made your mind up that you want to put everything we’ve shared behind us and move on. Fine. I’ve got it. Congratulations, Aya, you win again. I hope you and your new life and your newfound predilection for fucking around are very happy together. I’d say don’t worry about the rest of us but, well, I think I’ve already wasted enough breath for one night.”

“Yohji…”

Yohji, *what*? Don’t hate me? No. I know. Don’t hate me for what I systematically set out to achieve…

Oh God… What have I done?

“Good, you’re both here,” Omi comments, silently materializing in the doorway that leads off to the bedrooms. Although we didn’t have a mission tonight he’s wearing his mission clothes and this leads me to the unwelcome realization that he most likely hasn’t bothered changing out of them from last night. “I was hoping that you’d both be still up,” he adds, his expression giving away nothing as to what he thinks of the sullen and bedraggled picture we both must paint.

“For what do we owe this honor?” Yohji drawls, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes telling me that he’s as surprised by Omi’s outfit as I am. “Don’t tell me you’ve frozen all your computers and are suddenly in need of a bit of company? Dunno whether you know this, Omi, but one Bill Gates in the world is enough.”

“I’m merely here to pass on the information that Singapura, Manx and… and another Kritiker agent who I will introduce to you when the time comes, will be here at nine tomorrow morning to pass on our new assignments,” Omi states, completely ignoring Yohji’s reply and giving us both a pointed look. “I would appreciate it if you would be both up and dressed by this time as I have no wish to keep them waiting.”

“Who died and made you God?” Yohji mutters, his willingness to fight with me apparently spreading to Omi as well. “Fact of life, Munchkin, I’ll get up when I damn feel like it and if that offends the almighty Kritiker then, well, that’s just tough shit.”

“I’m just astonished that they even remember where it is that they’ve dumped us,” I murmur drily, the fact that Kritiker have only been communicating with us through courier delivered video tapes and files being yet another sore point. “I thought ‘hunt and kill orders’ aside that they’d forgotten we even existed.”

“Don’t be silly, Aya-kun,” Omi replies, his tone of voice just a tad too condescendingly for my liking. “Kritiker haven’t forgotten about Weiss. In fact, given that it will all become clear tomorrow, I can say now that I have been in constant contact with them since we were placed here.”

“Hooray for you,” Yohji interjects sarcastically. “I tell you, the games everyone are currently playing are second to freakin’ none. All we need is for Ken to rock up with the news that he’s decided to go ahead with the sex-change operation he’s been spending every night looking into and everything will be just about fucking complete!”

“All will be made clear tomorrow,” Omi replies solemnly. “It will most likely come as a shock but it’s what has to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to contact Ken before freshening up and taking a nap.”

“You just do that,” Yohji snarls, getting up from the sofa and making to walk out of the room. “I’ve had enough of this fucking bullshit! Omi, you can take your computers and your secrets and you can shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine. As for you, Aya…” Trailing off, Yohji comes to an abrupt stop in front of me and shakes his head sadly. “I… Although fuck knows what it’d take, I wish you every future happiness. It’s… It’s been special.”

And…

It’s over. Just like that.

His final piece having been said, Yohji roughly shoves Omi out of the doorway and disappears down the corridor towards his bedroom. Opening his mouth to no doubt ask me what the hell that was all about, Omi takes one look at my expression before, common sense kicking in, quickly deciding against it.

“Nine in the morning,” he murmurs, hastily backing away from me, his precious computers no doubt beckoning. “Please don’t be late. Everything, I promise, will be explained then.”

“Looking forward to it already,” I mutter, watching until Omi has entered his room and shut the door behind him before slowly walking out of the living room. For one of the few times in my life I wish I could just turn to alcohol in an attempt to obliterate the swirling mass of emotions clamoring for attention in my head. If I could drink until I simply passed out then maybe, just maybe, the pain would stop and I’d be able to forget everything that’s conspired to place me in this hellish position.

But, as with so many self-imposed aspects of my life, I can’t.

To drink myself into oblivion would be to lose my tenuous grip on control and, right now, that’s the last thing I need. Albeit slightly battered, I’m still in control…

I…

I am.

Yohji’s free to move on. *I’m* free.

This is what I wanted.

It…

It is.

Entering my room, I turn the light on and shut the door. My legs suddenly no longer wanting to be keeping me upright, I lean my back against the cool wood of the door as both unwanted and unwelcome tears begin to well in my eyes. Although I’ve now got what I’ve so busily been striving for, I feel quite literally as though I’m being sucked backwards into a black hole. My gaze falling on the bed, what I see carefully laid out on the comforter causes my breath to catch it my throat and for what little composure I had remaining to quickly up and leave me.

On the middle of the bed, stark against the plain, dark gray of my comforter, lies the pendant and chain I had made for Yohji of a white gold cross set with Kimura’s diamond ankh.

Forever Weiss.

He…

I don’t know how, but he knew. He knew, quite possibly even before I did, that tonight was going to be the end.

It’s true. Yohji knows me better than I know myself. He…

Christ. He probably even made it easy for me by behaving exactly how he knew I wanted him to.

My vision blurring with tears, I stumble away from the door and clamber inelegantly onto the bed, my hand instinctively reaching for and closing around Yohji’s chain. Curling into a ball, I clutch the cross so tightly that I can feel its edges embedding themselves in my palm. Giving in to my grief, the grief I have no one to blame but myself for, I welcome the twinge of pain and don’t lessen my grip even as a thin trickle of blood starts to ooze out between my fingers.

As Yohji said, I win again.

As Pyrrhic victories go, I fucking well win again.

Whatever it takes though. For the greater good of my sister… of Yohji… of Kritiker… hell, of the whole Godforsaken universe, I’ll do whatever it damn well takes to stay one step ahead.

Yohji, I love you… I’ll always love you, but this… this is for the best.

Whatever…

Whatever it takes.

~ end ~


End file.
